


Something You Miss

by somedaysomewhere



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24932425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedaysomewhere/pseuds/somedaysomewhere
Summary: For all his running, Seungyoun learns a lesson. Winds don’t die; they only lie in wait to sweep you off your feet.
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Something You Miss

“Life is short, and art long, opportunity fleeting, experimentations perilous, and judgment difficult.” – Hippocrates

Seungyoun brings the handkerchief to his forehead, wiping off the imaginary sweat that’s been bugging him since the one-on-one meeting commenced. Everything seems to stick—his hair to his skin, the collar of his shirt against his nape, the hands of the clock on its numbered face. He feels trapped, like he’s confined in a tight space with poor ventilation and muggy air. In reality however, it’s only been ten minutes, and winter is still ongoing, albeit on its last legs.

The second week of the month is when photographers pitch to magazines in hopes of getting published. Fortunately, he’s been steadily contributing to one for four years now, which eliminates the need to visit several media offices. While the pay isn’t extravagant, it’s decent enough for his daily expenses. Most importantly, he’s compensated with money—not with gift certificates or products he doesn’t even use. (He was once given a hair curler as payment for working on a campaign. He gave it to his mother, but it never saw the light of day.)

He’s currently in a bind though, as his pictures were rejected for three issues straight. The editor summed it up simply; it wasn’t heartrending nor a standout, and therefore, unfit to be printed. If Seungyoun is to be honest, he finds it odd, considering he shot them the same way he did everything else—with keen eyes and under abundant light. However, it only took one glance for all of them to be deemed ‘uninspired.’

So today, he tries again.

Lee Dongwook, the art director slash consultant of Inventory, is seated in a Saarinen tulip chair, dressed to the nines without a stray bang in sight. The crease between his brows mars his pristine appearance, which makes Seungyoun nervous because it’s the expression he had before when he turned him down. Still, he remains optimistic. He went for offbeat angles this time—surely, there’s at least one that will make the cut.

“Sorry, but I’ll have to reject these.”

Or maybe not.

“What?,” he blurts out, voice breaking. At this rate, the constant dismissal is becoming insulting. “It’s the fourth time you’re doing this. Please be honest with me. Was it a mistake?”

Dongwook turns to him sharply, confounded by his outburst. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Have I offended you? Was it something I said?”

“You’re misinterpreting this. It’s nothing personal, and you did nothing wrong.”

“Why then?”

“It’s just as I said. While the photos are logically connected to the theme, it blends in with the ocean of submissions.”

“But we’ve been doing this for years, and you were always satisfied with my work. What changed, hyung?,” Seungyoun asks, settling on the seat. He knows Dongwook isn’t the type to dismiss efforts so easily, which is why he’s blindsided by this sudden backtracking.

“That’s exactly it. I’ve been evaluating your work for so long that I’m sensitive to even the tiniest of differences. It’s not bad, but something seems to be missing. Since we’re both free, I want to talk to you about it.”

Seungyoun gulps upon hearing the word _talk_. He dislikes how it sounds, but he doesn’t really have a choice. “I’m all ears.”

Dongwook leans forward, resting his elbows atop the office desk. The Rolex on his wrist catches sunlight, a timely reminder that ultimately, he’s an established person who means business. “Seungyoun, do you like photography?”

“I do, of course. It can’t be my job if I don’t.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it tiring?”

“It can be, especially when I have multiple deadlines or when the client is too demanding.”

“Does it require thinking? Or is it reflexive, something your body has already memorized?”

Seungyoun ponders this. His process is pretty much standard—he finds a subject first before adjusting the camera settings accordingly. Once they’re optimized, he either takes one or twenty shots of the same thing, depending on what he’s shooting with. Admittedly, he’s hung up on _composition_ , and he can spend hours framing. Because of this, he has a tendency to discard ones which are unbalanced and off-center.

“I’m cerebral,” he confirms. “I overthink, actually.”

“I can tell. The last set came across as insecure, as if you were set on proving yourself,” Dongwook replies, eyes lighting up in understanding. “I appreciate the riskier approach, don’t get me wrong, but the output isn’t you.”

“Should I practice the opposite then? Be more impulsive?”

“No, that’s not it. Even if you answered otherwise, my comment would be similar. I guess I want more individuality. For your work to reflect who you are.”

“But how?,” Seungyoun questions, confused. He’s the one behind the lens—how can the results be ‘not him’?

“You’ve been doing it all along, although I suppose you’re not aware,” Dongwook says, reaching for his laptop. He types for a second before opening a file, and a picture fills the screen. 

Seungyoun bites his lip. It’s his first published photo. He didn’t think there was anything special about it back then, but it gained traction and was shared across multiple platforms and social media channels.

“When you presented this to me, I knew it couldn’t stay hidden from the world. At first look, your focus is grabbed by the two beagles sniffing a bouquet of starbursts, which on its own is already a selling narrative. But when you see it as a whole, you’d notice that there are people walking by the flower shop, and yet no one is paying attention to the store or the dogs. This lends a mysterious appeal, as if we’re the only ones privy to what’s happening.”

Seungyoun only nods, unsure how to respond to compliments.

Dongwook presses a key, and another picture pops out. “This leaves me breathless still. A sole rainbow umbrella among a sea of black ones. What’s so outstanding about it? The fact that the ones with black umbrellas are wearing color, and the person holding the rainbow one is in black.”

“An extremely lucky moment,” Seungyoun recalls, nodding to the memory. “I was en route to the convenience store when I chanced upon these employees getting off their shifts.”

“And then this series. Cityscapes on film aren’t a novel concept, but they manage to stay fresh as they depict how a person views the place they live in. You have this specific set… wait, let me search for it,” Dongwook whispers, scanning the files. “Here. First of all, despite shooting from outside the restaurant, you did a great job in maintaining the clarity of the customers’ expressions. Maybe it’s the fluorescent light, or because it’s nighttime and their tables are empty, but they all look exhausted, which already sets the tone. You could’ve stopped there, but you followed through with another scene where they’re digging into their orders, smiling from ear to ear. When juxtaposed, the contrast between the moods is striking. We arranged it like so—in two full color pages, one after the other to maximize the effect.”

“What’s the issue then? I capture the same situations, and I use the same gear.”

“To be frank, I can’t spell it out too. But I feel it, in the same way your photos can evoke nostalgia and bring me back to certain periods of my life. The problem lies with your recent ones—they don’t do anything. They’re too dry.”

Ouch. That’s one of the most hurtful things he’s ever heard. Seungyoun seeks to tell stories through his craft; if there are none, then what’s the point?

Dongwook must have sensed the shift in his demeanor, and he quickly raises his hands in defense. “It’s not meant to dishearten you. How should I put it? They’re good, of course. It’s apparent that they’re done by a professional. Technically speaking, the exposure is correct, the colors are balanced and even the cropping is perfect. But if I was to choose between pleasing and memorable, I’d undoubtedly go with the latter.”

“Do you have something to suggest?” Seungyoun sighs, relieving his anxiety one exhale at a time. Dongwook is right—somewhere deep down, he can sense a disconnect from the passion he thought he’d always have.

“As your higher-up, I want you to maximize your potential. If we create to the best of our abilities, Inventory will surely thrive. But as your friend, I want you to have that spark again. At four years, and that’s just in the company and not your entire career, you’re ripe for a burnout.”

 _Burnout._ That term seems to be all the rage these days. Everyone is drained and overworked, sometimes at the cost of their own health. There are thousands of articles tackling the matter and tons of specialists who dole out advice on how to deal with it. What is the world going to, and when did it become such a huge sphere of stress?

“I’ve been there so I can help,” Dongwook continues, propping his chin on one hand. He has the air of a person with experience, and Seungyoun knows he can trust his judgment. “I’m actually sending you off on a trip in two days.”

Wait _, what?_ “Huh? Pardon?”

“Your flight to Jeju is in three days, and you’ll be staying there for two weeks.”

“But I can’t pay for that,” Seungyoun counters, shaking his head. While he has enough savings, it isn’t wise to throw away money in a snap. Besides, Jeju will deplete his bank account by half. “And how about my lodging? The food? Why are you suddenly springing this on me?”

“I lied. It’s not a trip but an assignment for the next issue. We’re planning to feature the island, but instead of common scenery, we’re zeroing in on people and their daily lives. It’ll be an eight-page cover story so prepare around twenty to thirty pictures for screening. And because this counts as work, everything is already covered for.”

If approved, it’ll be his most extensive project to date. The eight pages will either make or break his name, and he is a little weary of that burden. “Isn’t it too big of a responsibility?”

Dongwook shrugs, handing him a brown envelope. “Don’t worry too much. We’re running a lead time of four months so we have ample time for adjustments. Anyway, the necessary stuff is inside—tickets, hotel reservations, meal allowances and all that. Further instructions, including the theme, are also enclosed. But I have one request: don’t skim that part until you’ve arrived.”

“I can’t believe you’re trapping me like this.”

“Well, you can decline. To me, I personally think it’s a great alternative—you get to refresh your mind without having to stray far from your usual routine. Plus it’s free. What’s there to lose?”

Truthfully, Seungyoun didn’t even consider refusing at all. Jeju has always been a shiny dream of his, and to have it without lifting a finger feels too good to be true. He waits for some sort of condition, like ridiculous demands or unreasonable cash bonds. However, the conversation jumps to the latest update of Adobe Lightroom, and it’s safe to say that the topic is over.

“Oh, and before I forget, you’re teaming up with a travel writer for the Jeju spread. Let me call him,” Dongwook cuts in, interrupting their curve tool discussion. He hurriedly fetches said person outside and returns just as quick, with a suited boy in tow who is all too familiar.

“Seungyoun?” Seungwoo freezes mid-step, clearly hesitating whether to walk in or excuse himself. His eyebrows are almost to his hairline, which would’ve been comical if Seungyoun isn’t shocked as well.

He stands so fast he almost hits the glass figurine at the edge of the table. “Eh? Seungwoo-hyung?”

“You know each other?” If Dongwook senses the tension, he tactfully keeps his mouth shut.

“Yeah, we do,” Seungyoun replies, not taking his eyes off the newcomer. He isn’t mistaken in his earlier assumption—all good things do have a catch.

  
  
  
  


Seungyoun has loved Seungwoo all his life, so the knowledge of having to spend the next fourteen days with him, in a remote island moreover, understandably sends his brain into overdrive.

“Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’m fine. Just a bit nervous since I haven’t been to Jeju in years,” he fibs, staring too hard at the in-flight entertainment screen. An obscure movie has been playing for an hour now, but he can’t tell what the plot is about, much less who stars in it.

“I’ll be your tour guide then. I go there a lot,” Seungwoo shares, the corners of his mouth lifting up. Dressed in a tee with rolled-up sleeves, his forearm tattoo displays beautifully. The blue lights of the parlor resurface on Seungyoun’s mind—seven years ago, he was there when it was being inked.

But then he blinks, and he is back in the airplane cabin again.

“For work?”

“Yup. A number of magazines are into Jeju lately. Excluding this trip, I was assigned there three times this year alone.”

“Wow. What a perk.”

“As if photographers aren’t as privileged.”

“There are some who get sent out often. I’m not one of them though,” Seungyoun admits without a hint of envy. Different creatives have different fortes; his is taking pictures of everyday Seoul and places accessible by train.

“I guess your focus is still on cities?”

“Yup. People, activities, buildings… I haven’t changed much in that aspect. Which is why I’m puzzled to be here.”

“I’m sure it’s because you have something that only you can deliver. Dongwook-ssi is very protective of Inventory. The entire board is, actually. When they allocate tasks, they give it with trust.”

“How did you start working for the magazine?”

“They had a call for submissions so I emailed a travel piece about Chiang Mai. I wasn’t expecting much, but I received a response shortly after, asking me to review publishing licenses in person. That was two years ago. Since then, the editorial assistant contacts me whenever there are projects I can participate in.”

“They take good care of us. I feel lucky to be needed even after four years of providing photos.”

“That’s a long time,” Seungwoo whistles, impressed. “But I agree. Inventory is one of my favorite publications to write for. When an article isn’t approved, it’s usually returned with an attached note that specifies where it went wrong. Something as small as that really helped me improve.”

“The editors are more like mentors. They’re generous with know-hows. That’s why when it comes to the magazine, I tend to drop everything else.”

“Right? I was considering another writing job, but this cropped up and it was an automatic yes.”

The conversation reaches an impasse. Uncertainty begins to fill Seungyoun’s head, clouding the words he was supposed to say. He wants to continue talking—hell, a whole day won’t even be enough to cover everything they missed. But will it be right?

After all, they promised to stay out of each other’s lives.

“Good morning. Would you like a drink?,” a flight attendant asks, gesturing to the menu. “We have water, fruit juice, tea and coffee.”

“What are your juice options?,” Seungyoun answers, seizing the opportunity to direct his attention elsewhere. In hindsight, he should’ve pretended to be asleep from the get-go.

“There’s orange, mango and apple.”

“I’ll have the orange please.”

“Alright. Please wait.” The flight attendant continues on her way, rounding every aisle and repeating the same spill.

The beverage arrives ten minutes later. Ice-cold, it cools him down enough to level his thoughts. As adults, they should be able to handle the situation professionally. He can see Seungwoo doing his best, but unfortunately, the same can’t be said for him.

Because Seungyoun has loved Seungwoo all his life, and a break-up and years of no contact didn’t dim it a bit. He reads his pieces every now and then, and he wonders if instead of time, it’s beautiful things that make one heal. But he’s been with beautiful men who only deepened the hollow he carried, even when they had a different way of saying his name. 

Then again, that’s on him. The least he can do now is be civil and smile.

“Is it fresh or store-bought?”

This time, he catches the bait. “With how sugary it is, I’m pretty certain it’s boxed juice.”

“Eh. I’m not getting one then.”

“Live a little? You can’t seriously think they have a juicer in the galley.”

“Who knows? I might get lucky one day.”

“Tell me: in all the times you traveled by plane, were you ever successful in your fresh juice quest?”

Seungwoo throws his head back, laughing. “Not really. That’s why I always opt for coffee.”

“Black and no sugar, of course,” Seungyoun replies instinctively. They’re similar in a lot of things, including their distaste for overly sweet food.

“Yeah. Black and no sugar.”

“Like no offense, but coffee with sprinkles and whipped cream gives me the shudders.”

“I think you’ll like this café in Seogwipo. It’s all white and homely and picturesque. They serve strong coffee without overly roasting the beans. We can visit that, if you’re okay with it.”

Back then, they had a habit of lazing around cafés, with him secretly capturing Seungwoo as the other was hunched over his journal. Seungyoun remembers complaining about facing his hair scalp for hours, but he liked it too, for Seungwoo was at his most honest when he wrote.

So he relents. Maybe it’ll be productive for the both of them. “Sure. I have to take photos anyway. What about you though?”

“I’ll be fine. Jeju always gives me something to write about. I don’t find it right away, but with a little digging, it’s there.”

Just then, the airplane radio beeps, signaling an incoming announcement. All flight attendants halt in their places, on standby for the pilot’s dispatch.

_On behalf of Korean Air, the flight crew welcomes you to Jeju International Airport. We will be arriving at the gate momentarily. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelt securely fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. If you are connecting to another flight, ramp agents will be just inside the door of the terminal to give you directions to your departure gate. If your final destination is this airport, please proceed to the baggage carousels to retrieve your checked luggage. The outside air temperature is a pleasant twenty-three with a light wind coming from the north. We hope you had a pleasant flight. We are pleased you chose to fly with us today and wish you a good morning._

It’s Seungwoo who breaks the silence first, tilting his head to the side. “We’re here.”

“Yeah. We’ve landed.”

  
  
  
  


Apparently, the hotel is a popular tourist choice. It’s fully booked by the time they come in, and the next available reservation date is still two months away. This only means that Dongwook has enough foresight to plan the issue six months in advance (counting the four-month lead time), or he has crazy connections to pull off a last minute arrangement. Whichever it is, Seungyoun won’t be surprised.

What he’s surprised about however is that only one room has been secured for them. Granted, there are two beds and a tiny bathroom and kitchen, but it’s too small to even have a semblance of privacy. And that’s the crux of his dilemma—all along, he held on to the hope that separate spaces will let him breathe. Now, he’ll have to see Seungwoo all the time, including when he wakes up and before he goes to sleep.

“I can transfer to another hotel,” Seungwoo says cautiously, probably thinking the same. It’s not that they hate each other, but there’s too much history to deal with.

But is this what he’s doing wrong? For some reason, Seungyoun feels tired. There’s only so many places he can run to—is it even running if he’s still in place?

Maybe he should change his approach. “No need. This is what they have for us. We might as well use it.”

“But won’t that be awkward?”

“If we make it to be. Some things are up to us; this can be one.”

Seungwoo exhales, dropping his bag to the floor. Just like that, the tension in his body dissipates, and his expression becomes radiant. “You have a point. Besides, there’s a project to work on. We don’t want the results to be affected.”

“Right,” Seungyoun nods, glad that they’re finally gaining headway. “So we settle down first and explore later?”

“Well, there are restaurants nearby if you want to dine out.”

“Hm… I’m craving chicken for tonight. Do you have recommendations?”

“Chita is my only answer. They have a set meal of half-garlic and half-cream chicken, which is cheaper than buying split orders. When I’m swamped with deadlines, I dream about eating them to comfort myself.”

“Something that makes deadlines bearable? I’m sold. Is it far?”

“Just a ten-minute bus ride. Twenty if we’re walking.”

“Let’s walk then. The sun should’ve set by dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

“And what if I want to cook? Where do I get ingredients?”

“I can accompany you to the wet market and grocery. They’re both walkable—will take five minutes tops. But what is this? You’re cooking now?”

“Hey, your eyes are about to pop out,” Seungyoun jokes, chuckling at the other’s face. This is a normal reaction it seems—all of his friends didn’t initially believe him as well.

“Can you blame me? You’re the only one I know who can ruin instant ramen.”

“Shh. That’s my dark, sordid past. I can whip up any jjigae now, thank you very much.”

Seungwoo stops in the middle of unpacking. He glances up from his open suitcase, looking even more astonished. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not! I can even do samgyetang when I’m determined. Do you have any requests?”

“Um, gimbap?”

“Gimbap it is. I’ll add kimchi jjigae as a bonus since it’s your first time to try.”

“I’m not sure if I should be afraid or excited.”

“You can be both. Everyone was. But by the end of the meal, they were convinced.”

“What made you learn?”

“Living alone? I can’t rely on fast food forever. Having too much of it dulls my taste buds.” Seungyoun didn’t notice it at first, but over time, even his favorites were starting to be bland. Food was one of his few solaces; when it stopped being such, he had to find a way to preserve the experience. Luckily, cooking resolved that for him. It was a win-win situation: he learned a new skill while giving his antsy hands something to nitpick.

“I avoid fast food as much as I can, but takeout remains a large part of my diet. Writing doesn’t exactly promote eating on time, you see. When I’m engrossed, I tend to forgo meals. My fridge is full of things that are easy to reheat and store.”

“There’s nothing wrong with takeout. I just hope you attend to yourself more. It may be contrite, but health is wealth.”

“Maybe you should remind me sometimes?”

“What I should remind you about is that we haven’t checked the theme yet,” Seungyoun deflects, reaching for the envelope inside his carry-on. There are rules he should set for himself—number one is to keep the conversations neutral and friendly.

“I almost forgot about that. What’s your guess?”

“I’m honestly more curious about why it wasn’t disclosed beforehand. Is it scandalous?”

“Please. Inventory is a lifestyle magazine. What can be controversial about gardening tips?,” Seungwoo says matter-of-factly, teasing.

Seungyoun rolls his eyes. He carefully unfolds the paper as not to tear anything. “You’re so smart, Captain Obvious. Anyway, I’m opening this.”

THEME – **DEPENDENCY**

In today’s world where everyone is pushed to be self-sufficient, how do we convince people that it’s fine to depend on each other?

Free interpretation, but the pictures and essay should match in atmosphere 

_Huh?_ “Eh? This feels a little anticlimactic.”

“Like I said, it’s a lifestyle magazine. You can’t expect something too out of the norm.”

“But what is this theme though? How do I explain it?”

“Aren’t we here to figure it out? Tomorrow morning, we’ll officially begin the trip. The earlier we commence, the longer interval we have to ruminate. If ideas are stagnant, we can always brainstorm.”

Seungyoun feels his mouth go dry. This is his hardest assignment to date. In his photowalk observations, people are often alone and are able to do tasks by themselves.

As someone who’s been independent from an early age, he can recite the steps of poaching an egg or operating a washing machine. But what does it mean to rely on someone? The last time he did so, it didn’t particularly end well.

_Wait._

“I think our reservation has something to do with this,” he points out, handing the paper to Seungwoo. Dongwook is incredibly astute—it isn’t impossible for everything to be a plan.

Seungwoo accepts it with a raised brow before reading the instructions once more. “You mean they intentionally put us in a single room so we can immerse ourselves in the theme.”

“Precisely. Imagine if we have individual ones. We’ll probably only interact when we’re outside, which isn’t conducive for collaborating at all. The isolation will cause our output to be disjointed.”

“And had dependency been the opposite word, living apart would be the ideal setup. Ah, really… the board is so detailed.”

Unearthing this doesn’t do much, but in the least, the last of Seungyoun’s qualms about rooming together are squashed. It’s all for work anyway, and when it comes to his career, he’s willing to go lengths to give it his best shot—pun intended.

“Oh, there’s a handwritten note at the bottom.”

“What does it say?,” he asks, confused at having overlooked it.

“It’s written in capital letters: HAVE FUN.”

  
  
  
  


Seungyoun has been laughing for the past five minutes, so it’s safe to say that _yes_ , he is having fun.

“Is this why you brought me here?,” he says in between breaths. “To show me this? Have you been concealing your true identity all this time?

“Shut up.”

A stone sculpture welcomes them upon entering the museum. Huge and imposing, the piece takes half of the pathway, halting visitors in their steps. It’s made of stone, and therefore, bears natural gruff and markings from years of weather exposure. Everyone who passes by it can’t help but stare. 

However, Seungyoun is looking at it for a different reason. He’s in awe, sure—the way a compact material can be molded into something fluid is truly outstanding. But the thing is, the sculpture resembles Seungwoo, down to his high nose and sharp jawline. The likeness is so ridiculous it makes him double over.

“Tell me when you’re finished so we can continue walking,” Seungwoo says, a bit peeved. His pouting only contributes to the hilarity of the situation.

“Are you a deity? Do you have some powers or fields I don’t know about?”

“I’m not entertaining you.”

“Or maybe you saved a modest village, and this was their gift to you?”

“God, you can be annoying.”

“I‘m aware,” Seungyoun sing-songs, sticking out his tongue. “You were so pushy this morning. I now know why.”

Seungwoo has always been easy to tease. In fact, their relationship can be summed up by him enduring his endless mischief. He wouldn’t let him win though; he would tease back so hard, and it would become a cycle of hysterics. So when the other grins at him this time, Seungyoun has to refrain from talking, or else he will say something stupid.

If he reminisces enough, those days are right in front of him.

“Anyway, there’s a second space in the annex across the central building. It’s two stories and used for artworks that are large enough to require a whole room to themselves. Since the main exhibition area is still full, do you want to go there first?”

He nods, skipping one of the garden steps. “Sure. But there are paintings that big?”

“The last time I went here, one took up an entire wall. Studying it was almost hypnotic—everytime I looked, there was something new to see.”

“You’re into art now, it seems.”

“Yeah. I discovered it years ago. I’m not super into it that I know techniques and all, or that I’m planning to formally learn about it. It’s a hobby, I’ll say. It makes me happy. It soothes me. Certain shapes and color combinations help me write.”

The Jeju Museum of Contemporary Art is their fourth itinerary for today. They decided for the third day of the trip to center around ‘art appreciation,’ an activity Seungyoun has always been curious about. His inspiration is stimulated by everyday life—by real people, things and scenarios. A close second are movies and magazines, but other than these, everything else is uncharted territory.

“Oh, it’s still here,” Seungwoo says, pointing to a hidden corner. “Hurry. There aren't a lot of people yet.”

The annex is distinguishable by its spotlights, high ceilings and sleek modern lines. It’s evidently more modern than the main building, visible in its horizontal planes and geometric elements. A black accent wall showcases a number of glass installations, and another is dedicated to the works of Park Kwangjin. The colossal painting stands right in the middle, spanning from one edge of the room to the other.

“What do you think?”

“I’m speechless.” Seungyoun is floored—not only by its sheer size, but also the level of detail painstakingly put into it. How much of a lifetime is consumed to do something of this scale?

“This is the second time I’m seeing it, and I’m still as dumbfounded. At 4 by 7 meters, it’s no wonder why it took eight years to finish.”

“Eight years? I can’t even go through my film rolls sometimes.”

“And there are days when I can’t go beyond three hundred words. But that’s how it is for us. Sometimes we’re good, sometimes we suck.”

“You’re right. What’s important is we stay in practice.”

Seungwoo turns to him, skeptical. “But you aren’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen you use your camera since we arrived.”

“Well, there’s nothing for the theme yet.”

“Eh? So you’ll only bring it out once you have a subject?”

“You seem so offended by the idea.”

“It’s not that I am. In the first place, it shouldn’t even be my business. It’s just… you haven’t been here in a long time right? Don’t you want to capture the place at least?”

“I will. I’m waiting for an opportunity,” Seungyoun shrugs, not really seeing the deal. He’ll shoot when he wants to, but presently, he just isn’t up to it. For now, he wants to absorb the energy of the city, so he can present it in the most authentic way possible.

“If that’s the case, then forget what I said. Just always bring your camera along. Moments go by in a blink.”

  
  
  
  


A moment comes to him on their fifth day in Jeju, in the form of a halmeoni feeding her customer a roll of tteokbokki. With their genuine smiles, the simple gesture is transformed into something extraordinary, prompting Seungyoun to reach for the camera in his windbreaker pocket. He frames the scene while holding his groceries, ensuring that the large pans of bright red sauce are included. It’s the first picture he’ll take on this trip, and he hopes it becomes the onset for many.

_Click._

“You found something?,” Seungwoo asks, balancing two paper bags in both of his arms. He’s been extra patient this morning, guiding them through the alleys of the wet market to find the ingredients they need.

“Yup. But I’m done. We can go now,” Seungyoun answers, looping the camera strap around his neck. So far, they only lack mirin for marinating. Maybe they should drop by the specialty store beside the hotel.

“It’s been a while since I last saw you in action. Even your pose screams professional.”

“Don’t I look cooler?”

“Yeah, you really do.” The way Seungwoo says it is very bittersweet. His voice even cracks at the end.

Seungyoun racks his brain for a response. One option is to reply earnestly and let his heart do the talking. In the years they avoided contact, they lost the chance to witness the realization of each other’s dreams. Sometimes he thinks of him during a career milestone. Seungwoo was one of the only few who encouraged him when he was just starting. 

But that’s too personal and uncalled for, so another option is to just divert the conversation. There are tons of stalls they haven’t gone to yet, and he can pretend to be hungry or interested in them. Then again, that has a loophole as well because they had breakfast before doing groceries. It’s wasteful to order food he ultimately won’t eat.

The safest bet is to acknowledge it without delving in too much. After all, relationships begin and end. They’re not the first to encounter this landmine of memories.

“Wait until the shots are published. You’ll be blown away.” There. _Safe._

“Eh, that isn’t new. Even then, you were good already.”

“Where is this coming from? I’m not backing out from cooking lunch, if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s no need to butter me up.”

Seungwoo glares at him. “It’s not ‘buttering you up.’ I’m just nostalgic because of your camera. But if you don’t want the praise, I can take it back I guess…”

“Leave the compliment alone,” Seungyoun jokingly threatens. “Oddly though, I didn’t have the same feeling when I saw you typing last night.”

“That’s because I don’t use a journal now.”

“Please. Is that reason even valid?”

“Very,” Seungwoo affirms with confidence. “I’ll whip out a Moleskine sometime and watch you weep.”

“And if I make your favorite coffee? What then?”

“Mine is the winning move: I’ll dry your hair after a shower.”

“Excuse me? Why would I cry over my hair being toweled?”

The banter continues on as Seungyoun takes more photos of the pedestrians in the street. For some reason, today is easier than the other days—he got discounted prices, the cashier lines are short, and at present, the city is cooperating with his project. The weather is chilly too, perfect for the stew he’s planning to make.

If he reminisces enough, the lightness of those days are right in front of him. He lets the wind of the past settle on his skin; lets it caress his hair and replace his eyes and carry his steps. But then he blinks, and he is back in Jeju, gallivanting with a boy he broke up with six years ago. For all his running, he learns a lesson. Winds don’t die; they only lie in wait to sweep you off your feet.

  
  
  
  


All histories are burdened with conflicts. In his sentimentality and false optimism, Seungyoun forgets that they were once people who caused each other pain. They knew their respective tics, which meant they could unravel the threads of their patience deftly. The occasions they lashed out were rare, but whenever they happened, it was hell.

So he shouldn’t be surprised when on the ninth day, the dam comes to a burst. Maybe it’s the pressure, the scorching hot weather, the looming departure date, or a combination of all three—whichever the reason, it resurfaces the ire they buried all these years.

“Eight photos? Really?”

“Yes. Any problem?”

Seungwoo shakes his head disapprovingly. “Maybe you’re treating this project a lot like vacation.”

“I told you before. I’m not lazing around. If that’s my output so far, it’s because they’re the only ones to fit the theme.”

“There are five days left, Seungyoun. And you need what, at least twelve more to complete your required 20-30 pieces for submission? How are you going to make it?”

“Watch your words,” he warns, setting his camera down on the night desk. Fifteen minutes ago, Seungwoo asked to see the pictures, citing a necessity to align them with his article. Seungyoun let him be, not expecting to be interrogated.

But now, he regrets it so much.

“God, you’ve always been like—”

“Like what? Come on, continue that sentence.”

“You’re so relaxed. Like you don’t have a care in the world. Like nothing can touch you in your bubble. But news flash: we’re here to work. Eight pages are assigned to us—are you grasping that at all?”

“Hold on. Are you implying that I’m not giving as much effort into this as I should?”

“Whatever floats your boat. All I know is that I’m doing my best.”

“And I’m not?,” Seungyoun demands, rising from his bed and trudging to the kitchen. If he stays within close distance, he might punch the other square in the face. “Do you know what the real deal is, Seungwoo? You think you do things for everyone else, but you’re ultimately just self-serving. You always act superior. Even back then.”

“Using the past, I see. Bring up everything else while you’re at it.”

“You did it first with your ‘you’ve always been’ shit. It’s been six years. What the hell gives you the right to think I’m still the same?”

“All I’m pointing out is that you’re not as focused as you should be!”

“No, that isn’t what you said. You questioned my craft and motivation for an assignment I literally had sleepless nights about. If you’re that interested about my process, then here it is: while you’re passed out in bed, I’m rounding the city and navigating it with a mobile map. The pictures I showed you were the best ones out of twenty, and I have also taken a few more using film for additional backup. Are you satisfied now?”

Their break-up wasn’t because of something significant like cheating or destructive tendencies. It was this—the constant fighting that chipped away at their hearts until they could no longer understand and forgive. He can’t even pinpoint what their last quarrel had been about, only that it became the final straw. The next thing they knew, they were packing their things.

_“When I remember how miserable I was, it makes my skin crawl.”_

_“And you think I had it easy with you? I hope our paths never cross again.”_

In the end, all it took was them at their cruelest.

Seungyoun has loved Seungwoo all his life—he met him when he was six, dated him from seventeen and broke up with him at twenty-four. At thirty years old, weary and jaded, his heart is finally tired.

“I’m leaving to cool my head. There’s leftover bulgogi in case you get hungry,” he says, picking up his wallet and bus pass. “Lastly, fuck you.”

  
  
  
  


“I had a feeling you were here.”

Seungyoun’s left cheek is assaulted by something cold, causing him to burrow further into the warmth of his jacket. Because of the midday heat, he didn’t expect tonight’s breeze to be freezing, which consequently made him leave his coat in the hotel. From a distance, he can see the lights of a passing ship. The moon hangs low in the sky, parting the sea and turning it into a million silver prisms.

“You didn’t have to,” he mumbles, taking the canned beer pressed to his face. He opens it to a pop, the sound instantly lifting his mood. Often, the cure to most things is just the beach and a drink.

“I needed to.”

“Why? So you can ease your guilt?”

Seungwoo inhales deeply before speaking. “No. I just want to apologize. I was out of place. You don’t have to forgive me, but I admit my mistake.”

“Hm. Can you specify which?”

“I’m sorry for being intrusive. For insulting you, basically.”

“Go on.”

“For believing you’re not focused enough. For doubting your abilities. For assuming you don’t have a sense of responsibility.”

“And?,” Seungyoun presses on.

“For going overboard. For not respecting your boundaries as a creative. For saying I don’t want to cross paths with you again.”

 _Wait. The last one is…_ “Hey—”

“I’m sorry that you spent the majority of our dates looking at my scalp. For buying the wrong brand of film when you constantly reminded me which kind. For forgetting your birthday once. For not giving in to the Jeju trip you wanted because I was too busy being cheap.” Seungwoo looks everywhere but at him, and for some reason, that makes his words hurt even more.

“Seungwoo, you don’t have to—”

“I need to. I’m sorry for insisting that your serenity meant negligence. In reality, you’ve always been free.”

Seungyoun feels the burn of his eyes. He tosses his head back to stop the tears from falling, pretending to drink. “It’s not like I’m spotless myself. I was really careless back then. I was insecure, discontent and immature, and I projected that to you. I was greedy. I sulked when I didn’t get what I wanted. I’m sorry for those too.”

“Still, I was the older of us.”

“No. Don’t make excuses for me. We both had our faults that were too hard for the other to bear. It’s important that I say this though: I wasn’t miserable with you. We had bad moments, of course, but our relationship could be described as timelessness at best. It had been a repose.”

The smell of seawater lingers in his nose. All of his ire has now evaporated, and all that’s left is another hole he needs to overcome. He stares at Seungwoo, observing the shadows of his half-hidden face. It’s the two of them again, just like before, finding each other in the most bizarre of circumstances.

“You know, there was a particular day when I went back to the places we’ve gone to,” he admits, voice almost a whisper. “I stood in front of the hobby shop where we bought my first disposable camera. I read Apartamento on the line 1 train—the line we used to board to our shared apartment. I lingered in the café where we spent our days. I cried throughout the taxi journey home because what I did felt so pathetic, but then laughed because it was so me. Classic, vintage me.”

“It’s not only you. I did strange things as well—avoiding everything that reminds me of you, blocking and unblocking and blocking you across all accounts, going to various photo stores just in case you’re there. And that’s just three out of probably a hundred. Can we blame ourselves? We were desperate to heal.”

They watch the waves lap at the shore, foam forming at its edges, the sound lulling them into comfort. For all his running, Seungyoun finally reaches a stop. It’s time to address the gaps within himself that only he can permeate.

  
  
  
  


The world isn’t mistaken in its enduring assumption—all good things do come to an end.

Seungyoun takes another photo before joining Seungwoo for breakfast. He has to do it inconspicuously, or else the shutter sound will be noticed. Wrapping a blanket around the camera, he pretends to do a final inspection of the bed, patting the pillows while actually framing the shot in secret. It takes him longer to position the viewfinder, but once he does, he sends a prayer to the heavens and clicks.

And that’s it. His last picture for the trip.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes,” he answers, hurriedly shoving the gadget back to its case. “I’m coming in a bit.”

He refolds the blanket and lays it above the mattress. As his home for the past fourteen days, this place has been a witness to a multitude of his emotions, in ways he totally didn’t expect. His favorite is when it’s eight in the morning, and the sun is shining directly on his side of the room. He would soak up its light everyday without fail, like a plant happily undergoing photosynthesis.

While initially worried, he was surprised with how easily he adapted to Jeju; to its slow and mindful living, to its beaches and alleys, to the market vendors who readily hand him the freshest ingredients he could ever hope for. There are life experiences that change a person forever—to him, this is one of them.

“The food is getting cold,” Seungwoo calls out, breaking his reverie. Right, there isn’t time to procrastinate. They’re leaving in three hours.

“Sorry! I’m going.”

He proceeds to the tiny dining table for two, taking the seat in front of the older and reaching for his share of the meal. Back then, they’d start their days like this. He can close his eyes to reminisce, but he doesn’t feel the need to do so anymore.

“Where did you buy this?,” he asks, referring to the spread of fruit jams and croissants. There are bacon and omelette on the side too, all placed in quaint ceramic plates.

“The bread and jam are from a nearby bakery. Everything else is by me.”

“Eh? You cooked?”

“Yeah. To at least contribute something.”

Seungyoun tears a piece of the croissant before dressing it with a dollop of orange marmalade. “What are you saying? You’re a competent tour guide.”

“Really? So I take it you enjoyed? Don’t be shy with your praise.”

“It’s not bad.”

“Hey. No compliments even on the last day?” Seungwoo puts on his best kicked puppy act, made even more effective by his devastating pout.

“Heh. But honestly, I was and am happy.” He truly means it, but at to what extent, Seungyoun doesn’t know himself.

They’ve faced each other like this many times in this same space, in this same table and same scenario, so by now, he should be used to it. But today, something about Seungwoo’s expression is unbearably gentle, and Seungyoun is once again caught in a familiar, sweeping wind. 

“What are you doing once we’re back in Seoul?”

Seungwoo sips from his mug. “Oh, I’m staying put for a while. Take more domestic projects if I can.”

“Establishing roots?”

“More like reacquainting myself. There’s a lot that I missed.”

“Did you change numbers?,” Seungyoun asks, feigning nonchalance. He knows he hasn’t—a common friend confirmed it to him.

“No. How about you?” 

“I haven’t as well. The thought of updating documents exhaust me already.”

He could’ve concluded the journey on a more memorable note. However, in that sunlit kitchen which smelled of coffee and pine, the moment felt too perfect that he was afraid of shattering it.

  
  
  
  


“How do I even choose among these?”

Dongwook’s lips are downturned as he studies the pictures. It’s his first sentence after minutes of perusal, and with it, the temperature of the room drops a few degrees. His posture is stiff, and the crease between his brows is present. From experience, these indicate an incoming refusal. 

Well, Seungyoun has actually prepared two plans beforehand, just in case his output isn’t approved again. One is to exit the office without crying, and two is to leave the ‘breaking down’ to the privacy of his home. He poured his heart into this project—for the first time in a while, he has photos he’s immensely proud of. While rejection isn’t going to kill him, it’ll surely demolish what’s left of his confidence. 

“Is there a problem?,” he asks, shifting in his seat. Maybe he can pass by a grocery later and buy packs of beer to drown his sorrows with.

“Yes. My problem is that they’re excellent. Now I don’t know which to feature.”

“Eh? So they passed?”

Dongwook tilts his head to the side, grinning mischievously. Just like that, his previous austerity disappears. “Yes. Were you anxious?”

“You’re so mean, hyung.” The sudden whiplash makes Seungyoun dizzy. Out of nervousness, he was already considering a soul-searching trip.

“But what I said was true. I’ll need your help deciding. As I raise a picture, please tell me the story behind it.”

“By all means.”

“Okay, first one,” Dongwook begins, showing a print. It’s the tteokbokki picture blown up into 8R size. The colors have rendered vividly, and the reds are almost popping out of the scene.

“A market is rife for good subjects—everywhere you look, there’s always something happening. What completes this is the happiness radiating off them. The halmeoni is glad to feed a customer, and the customer is glad to have been given rice cake. I think it reminds us of our own grandmas who, at some point, we all have depended on for food.”

“Next.” 

“A son ties his mother’s hair as they wait for the next bus. Because of his small hands, he fails to catch some strands and ends up doing a messy half ponytail instead. Yet, the mother thanks him for a good job, which lights his eyes up and makes him beam. That little act of depending on her child has done wonders to his morale.”

Dongwook nods before picking another photo. “And this?”

“That’s the most straightforward among the submissions. Just a photo of handholding—the gesture says _I’m here_.”

The selection continues on until almost every shot has been explained. From a person crying on someone’s shoulder, to a group of students carrying a standee, to a teenager assisting elderly pedestrians; he connects them all, weaving a dream where people are mindful of what they let others carry and what they can carry themselves.

“Oh, we’re finally down to the last,” Dongwook says, shuffling the prints. “Including this, you presented a total of twenty-five, which is an amazing feat so give yourself a pat on the back. It’ll be narrowed down to around thirteen or fifteen though, determined by the length and content of Seungwoo’s article.”

“Understood.”

“Alright. Let’s finish this then.”

The twenty-fifth picture is the one he took in Jeju hours before their departure. It’s Seungwoo with his back to the camera, framed by limestone walls and an assortment of pans. Because it’s shot from a 45° angle, the empty space in front of him can be seen. There’s another mug aside from his, along with a plate and set of utensils.

Seungyoun can feel the art director’s eyes on him, so he answers first before he can speak. “It’s him.”

“I figured. Please expound.”

“We had breakfast together every morning of the trip. I could make my own coffee and food, but I let him. I could find my way around Jeju, but I depended on him. I didn’t notice I was already relying on him, even if it’s just with the little things.”

“This is my favorite actually. The emotions are palpable.”

“It ought to be. He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

Dongwook’s jaw drops. He’s always wearing a blank expression, so this animated face is a rare but welcome sight. “What?”

“Yes. We were in a relationship for seven years and broke up six years ago.”

“And we unconsciously brought you together again?”

“Precisely.”

“Holy shit.”

“That was my reaction too.”

“It must’ve been awkward?”

Seungyoun shrugs, recalling their initial discomfort. “At first. But we’re there for work, and we wouldn’t sacrifice that just because we couldn’t get over ourselves.”

“What are you going to do about him then?”

“Huh?” Perplexed, he rubs the tattoo on his forearm. He hasn’t really thought about it. 

“Are you letting him go just like that? Don’t you want to find out the reason behind this?”

“Does it have to mean anything?”

“You met again. That has to count for something, right?,” Dongwook says, twirling his pen. “It doesn’t even have to be romantic. Maybe it’s for closure or friendship. I’m not one to advise on these things—I’m better off asked about design and all that. But tell me, what are the odds of exes accidentally meeting after six years to work for a single project? Moreso, a project that was spearheaded by people who don’t know them at all?”

Seungyoun sighs. He’s aware of this of course, but he’s reluctant to acknowledge it. “Highly unlikely.”

“The world conspired for it to happen. Why don’t you try depending on that chance?”

  
  
  
  


There are days when he stares at a particular contact. He composes several messages to it, ranging from a simple _how are you_ to a _would you like to go out sometime_ that’s probably inappropriate. They’re often a sentence long, but they can expand to paragraphs, especially on days when he’s out of motivation or coffee filters. The topics can go anywhere from his work to dad jokes to banana milk brand comparisons. Do these matter though?

In the end, Seungyoun doesn’t send them anyway.

  
  
  
  


The issue comes out five months later.

It doesn’t take much to make Seungyoun cry, so it’s no surprise that he tears up upon seeing the magazine’s cover story for the first time. A mix of fulfillment and euphoria wash over him, and he briefly stops from browsing in order not to give himself arrhythmia. Inventory has always opened doors for him; this time, it’s not of opportunity but a change in direction. He loves Seoul and all the photos it granted him, but now, he’s ready to be swept away by larger, unfamiliar cities. 

So when his next assignment was revealed a month ago, he couldn’t help but be ecstatic. _Twelve days in Tokyo._ A cinematic theme for an ultramodern city often seen in movies.

A part of his mind is still in Jeju though. Mostly, he’s curious about Seungwoo’s write-up. While the other had a glimpse of his progress, he hadn’t asked for any of his. Initially, it was hesitation, and then he decided to wait until the article was printed. That day is today. Coffee in hand, he sets out for the first paragraph.

_‘Is there something new in Jeju?’ is a question I’m often asked whenever I tell people that I’m traveling to the island. See, I have written countless pieces about it, and I can navigate the city even with my eyes closed. But the thing with traveling is that it gives you something new each time, like when you reread a book and notice things you missed before. I’m a different person every time I travel. After this trip, I’m even more so._

Seungwoo writes beautifully. He knows how to weaponize his words—how to describe otherworldly sights, make food appetizing, and turn intangible experiences into something one can visualize. His published pieces echo the same message: that instead of time, it’s faraway places that make one heal. Seungyoun agrees wholeheartedly; Jeju soothed the part of him that was weathered and tired. 

_You interpret things according to the current phase of your life. Because of this, I’ve seen Jeju in similar and contrasting ways. It’s always breathtaking though—that I won’t contest._

Seungwoo talks about the places next. He starts with the hotel they stayed in, giving credit to its neoclassical elements. The nearby beach is a close second, and then the hobby and souvenir shops, and finally, the markets with its welcoming vendors. And because eating is a must, food recommendations take a large chunk of the content. Four paragraphs are dedicated to the museums they went to. Seungyoun smiles, recalling the stone sculpture incident.

From there, it’s a list of adventures: viewing the mountains, kitesurfing, smelling flowers, the Seogwipo café. The five hours they spent fishing, only to end up with one piece of squid. A reminder to watch the sunset; to register every orange and blue, preferably with someone who can appreciate it as much as you will.

The article can be intimidating with its seven thousand words. Nonetheless, a lot of people will find it amusing because of its phrasing and dry humor. It’s like catching up with an old friend—and to Seungyoun, that’s pretty much the reality. He consumes the last of his drink, moving to the last two paragraphs.

_I came to the island with a feeling of apprehension. Something unforeseeable happened, and I didn’t know how to react. There are things you leave behind, right? In my case, it suddenly resurfaced, and I only had three days to adjust. Fortunately, we were able to resolve the matter. It was hard at first, of course, but once we let go of our misgivings, we were able to enjoy the journey to the fullest._

_Jeju always gives me something to write about, and this trip is no different. However, I had to scrap the first two drafts as they centered around a person I thought I'd already forgotten. This is my third attempt. Please excuse if I missed something—it’s because my brain is still disorganized. Sometimes, it’s like I’m still there._

Overcome with emotion, Seungyoun quickly gets his phone to type a message. It’s only a few sentences, but he pours years of yearning into it. For all their wilting, maybe it’s the season to bloom at last.

This time, he makes sure that it reaches him.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while ;_;
> 
> i haven't been to jeju so i'm sorry for any inaccuracies. and i imagined inventory to be similar to monocle, if it helps :)
> 
> *lead time is the time between the inception and completion of a magazine. for example, an issue slated for december can be initiated as early as today
> 
> /edit, also this came into fruition because both sw and sy said they want a vacation in jeju hh
> 
> you can find me on [twt!](http://twitter.com/visibleblues)


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